Hard Line

by Michael Z. Lewin

  Powder ignored him to say to Grove, “I hope my son fed you folks well the other night.”

  “Oh, terrific,” Grove said with enthusiasm. “Really took us to the trough and pushed our muzzles in it.”

  “I’m glad the kid upheld the family reputation for hospitality.” Then Powder added with a wink, “Mind you, I don’t know how he does it on a lineman’s salary.”

  Dwayne Grove laughed, and offered a conspiratorial smile that excluded the other pirate, who in any case was busy feeling the lapels of Rebecca Coffey’s costume and saying, “Nice material, but not authentic Egyptian.”

  Powder located Fleetwood talking animatedly to a baseball player sitting on a couch. On the other side of her, a diminutive, hairless Tarzan sat on the floor. Powder saw the Tarzan begin to rub Fleetwood’s leg.

  He was about to go to her when he saw another of the people who had been to his house, John Hurst, dressed as a Native American, talking to a riverboat gambler Powder felt he had met but could not place.

  Powder walked up to the two of the them and grabbed Hurst’s hand. “Roy Powder, Chief,” he said. “You’re Hurst, aren’t you?”

  “That’s right.”

  “And who’s this?”

  Powder placed him at the same time Hurst said, “Clive Burrus.”

  “Glad to meet you, Clive. Nice to see you again. Hurst. Having a good tune, I hope? Take care.”

  Powder left as abruptly as he had arrived and proceeded to interrupt Fleetwood’s conversation, which had expanded from the baseball player to include a woman in a tuxedo. “Hey,” Powder said, “can I have a word with you, Carollee?”

  Fleetwood hesitated, but the Tarzan rose and slid quietly away and Powder pulled her chair a few feet into the space.

  “What is it. Powder?”

  “Did you know a subadolescent Tarzan has been rubbing your leg for half an hour?”

  Fleetwood looked for the Tarzan.

  “What’s the matter, you don’t feel so good down there?”

  “I can let someone rub my leg if I like it. What do you want?”

  “What I want is to call your wavering attention to another of your assignments here.”

  “What’s that?”

  “The guy Burrus that came into the office twice, shabby and dirty. Missing a girlfriend.”

  “Yes?”

  “He’s here, in rhinestones and a waistcoat and spats. So, in between bouts in the jungle, I want you to find out who he is, who he’s with, what he does. And if you can, something about this missing girlfriend.”

  Fleetwood looked around for Burrus.

  Powder said, “You didn’t think this was just a social swirl on IPD time, did you? Don’t forget, you’re on duty, Sergeant.”

  He turned her back to the couch, where instead of the ballplayer. Father Tune had sat down to rest his weary bones.

  The party’s music and dancing were centered in a cleared room at the back of the house. Powder watched a while in the doorway. Then he felt a tug on his shoulder. The tugger was Chief John Hurst, who said, “I was very impressed with your comments about food the other night and the way the big corporations sacrifice us little people for the sake of their profits. Thanks.”

  Powder looked at the man, but did not speak.

  A woman dressed as a Pilgrim Mother walked by and Hurst grabbed her by the waist. “Here’s another victim of the big corporations, damn and blast them, aren’t you, Lila?”

  “I’m not Lila,” Lila Lee said, slurrily. “As you can plainly see I am Wilhelmina Truscott.”

  “Who’s that?” Hurst asked.

  “Who’s that? Who’s that? That’s the problem with you pigs.” She looked unsteadily at Powder and giggled. “Sirry sor. I mean, sorry sh. By pigs I am meaning, more generally, pigs of the male chauvinist ilk and not of your ilk, if you follow my drift.”

  “My sails are full of your drift,” Powder said.

  Wilhelmina Truscott frowned momentarily and then laughed, “Oh good.”

  “A victim,” Hurst said. “A victim, and as a result she goes and gets sloshed whenever she gets the slightest excuse.”

  Unsteadily, Lila shook her head. “That’s a damn lie. Damn lie. Not so.”

  Hurst began to speak, but Lila continued. “I don’t need an excuse. Not even a slightest one.” She laughed, but cut it short to ask, “What do you mean, ‘victim’?”

  “I mean Terry.”

  “Oh.” Tears welled in her eyes. “Poor Terry.”

  “Terry,” Hurst addressed Powder, “is Lila’s husband.”

  “And what’s happened to Terry?”

  “He’s in jail, that’s what’s happened to Terry.”

  “I see,” Powder said stiffly.

  “The pigs put him there,” Lila said, “and this time I mean your kind of pigs.”

  “Terry was convicted of dealing in cocaine,” Hurst said. And he waved a finger in the direction of Powder’s face. “Dealing in cocaine is illegal and Terry was at it, so, superficially, it seems straightforward.”

  “Yes,” Powder said. “It does.”

  “But my point is, why is it illegal? You seem to be simpatico for fuzz. Why is cocaine illegal? Will you tell me that?”

  “No,” Powder said.

  “Well, I’ll tell you. And the reason is the big corporations that have a stranglehold on the alcohol market and they can’t stand something that will do for people what alcohol does, only better. They’ve got too much invested. So they make sure that government sends poor little guys like Terry away forever and a day because they are a threat, a threat, to the stranglehold of the alcohol lobby. That makes governments and corporations fair game, as far as I am concerned.”

  “You guys shouldn’t take a nice guy like Terry,” Lila said, as if she’d been saving it for minutes. “Such a sweet, nice guy that wouldn’t hurt a fly.”

  “I can vouch for that,” Hurst said. “The nicest guy in the world.”

  Slowly Powder said, “You think it’s a bad law, right?”

  “A stinker. A corrupt—”

  “Would you like to know how I can help?”

  “How?” Hurst asked, for them both.

  Powder smiled and nodded gently. “By locking up everybody who even knows how to spell cocaine.”

  The sudden hard glare in Powder’s eyes silenced them both.

  “If I, as a police force, come down as hard as I can with a law, that’s the way to affect the most people and get them to think about whether it is a bad law. So the best thing for me to do is go out and bust everything in sight. Is either of you carrying?”

  “Just a—”

  “Thanks for the opportunity of this little conversation,” Powder said. “I’ve enjoyed it a lot.”

  Powder left them and carried his empty wineglass in the direction of the bar.

  At the end of the entrance hallway, Powder saw a trench-coated figure working at unraveling the mystery of the pharaohs.

  Powder took his drink to them. “Hi, guys,” he said heartily. “Hey, this is the first I’ve seen of Sam Spade, Junior, here.” He slapped Ricky on the back. “Hey, great little party, Mrs. Coffey.”

  “Uh, thanks,” Rebecca Coffey said.

  “I’m having a whale of a time. I’m meeting all kinds of people to talk to. Nearly like being at work, only nobody has come even close at guessing my costume, what do you think of that?”

  Powder stared at Rebecca, demanding a response.

  “Hey, take it easy. Dad,” Ricky said. “She isn’t used to people like you.”

  Ignoring Ricky, Powder said, “Go on, take a guess.”

  Rebecca shook her head dazedly. “Lawyer?”

  Powder beamed. “Hey, that’s not bad. Not right, but not bad. Hey, since you are my hostess, you are going to be the first to know. What my costume is, is a plainclothes police detective!”

  Ricky began to interrupt, but Powder stopped him. “No, wait, that’s not all. A plainclothes police detective on detail to track down g
uys who are doing illegal wiretaps. What do you think of that? Good, eh?”

  Rebecca nodded, dazedly again, and Ricky said nothing.

  “And you know how I tell them? First, you sniff them out because they’re making money, usually in cash, above and beyond the amount that would be expected from whatever job they seem to hold. And having money, easy-life types gotta spend it, so you’ll see them with flashy cars. The next thing is that they go around carrying burglary and bugging equipment. A dead giveaway. Take Ricky here.”

  Ricky looked stricken, but Rebecca was not keeping pace at all, and giggled slightly as she looked at Powder’s son.

  “He would be the type we’re after, only he isn’t carrying the equipment. So, there you are. But a great little party, enjoying myself a lot. Is your husband around? I’d like to thank him too.”

  “He’s upstairs,” Rebecca Coffey said, “but he doesn’t want to be disturbed. He’s, uh, with somebody.”

  “Oh, great. I wouldn’t disturb him for the world. But maybe I’ll catch him later. What costume is he in?”

  “Well, he started as a tennis player but he might be into something else by now,” she giggled mightily. Ricky stood stonefaced.

  “Groovy,” Powder said. He saluted the couple with his wineglass and strode away.

  Powder found Fleetwood talking to a penguin, but didn’t hear what they were saying. “Come on, Carollee,” he said, “They’re playing our song.”

  He rolled the startled sergeant into the music room, where an enthusiastic mass of people, hardly coupled, bounded to the rhythmic music. Powder took Fleetwood to the middle of the floor and started gyrating before her.

  She immediately moved toward the exit, but Powder stood in front of her. “You’ve lost the beat,” he said. “Forget your troubles, try again.”

  Again she strove to leave, but he headed her off. She sat still then, as Powder aped various people he saw around them. The track ended, and Powder rolled her off the floor.

  He said, “You’re not as tough as you think you are. By the end there I saw you tapping your little finger.”

  Fleetwood looked up at him and said, “Never do that again!”

  “So, you don’t dance, huh? You’re no fun at all.”

  He rolled her back to the penguin.

  The penguin stood up and said,“You must be Lieutenant Powder.”

  “Up against the wall and take the position,” Powder said sharply. “How do you do?” He shook the penguin’s flipper.

  “Before your twirl, Miss Fleetwood and I were talking about incarceration,” the penguin said.

  “Something you know a lot about?” Powder asked chattily.

  “Not from first hand,” the penguin said. “But I was explaining that I feel there is a lot wrong with imprisonment, and she was in the process of defending her role on society’s behalf.”

  “I’m with you,” Powder told the penguin, and he struck a conversational pose.

  “You are? How interesting.”

  Nodding gravely. Powder said, “Current trends and practices are most disturbing. Particularly overcrowding in prisons and jails, and the number of unconvicted people who do time just waiting for trial. It’s scandalous.”

  “I’m very interested to hear you say that,” the penguin said.

  Fleetwood looked on silently.

  “But what’s worse is the tendency across the country to take the soft option of a hard line.”

  “By which you mean?”

  “Flat-time sentencing, abolition of parole, and many of the practices associated with juvenile so-called justice. The fact is that group incarceration is a net increaser of crime rather than a protection from it. A comprehensive rethink of sentencing alternatives is the only way out of a spiraling hole.”

  “If you feel that way,” the penguin said, “doesn’t it make you hesitate before you arrest somebody?”

  “Nope,” Powder said. “Get the cuffs on and down to the slammer. Nothing more satisfying. You want a drink, Miss Fleetwood? I’m feeling thirsty.” He took her glass and his own back toward the hall.

  But instead of refilling them, he carried the empty glasses to the stairs. Ricky and Rebecca were no longer standing at the foot of the balustrade. Powder went up.

  On the second floor he found four doors. One, a bathroom, was empty. The other three doors were locked. Powder stood on the landing, puzzled.

  He went downstairs and in the front hall he found a stocky girl dressed as a three-star army general.

  The girl saw his empty glasses and said, “Shit, you looking for a bottle that’s got something in it too?”

  “No,” Powder said, “I’m looking for someone to tell me why the rooms upstairs are locked.”

  “Oooo,” the girl said. “Naughty, naughty.” But then she looked puzzled. “You were looking for a free room alone?”

  “What’s the drill, General?” Powder asked. “Rooms available for little parties during the big party?”

  “That’s it. There’s keys in the doors on the inside.”

  “Someone must have taken the list of house rules down from the wall,” Powder said.

  The girl snorted, and then asked, “What are you dressed as?”

  “Well,” Powder said. “It’s a pretty subtle getup you see before you. A lieutenant of police, dressed in plain clothes, working out of the missing persons section of the Indianapolis Police Department.”

  The general scrutinized Powder carefully. “Gee, how do I tell?”

  “If you look really close,” Powder said, “you can tell from the furrows in the brow.”

  The general looked close.

  “It’s a rough game, this missing persons. You army types can just go in and shoot people, but we have mothers and lost children, crying their eyes out, when we know the children they’ve lost don’t want to come home. That’s the real kind of missing.”

  The general suddenly had tears in her eyes. “That’s terribly moving,” she said.

  Powder nodded, actually affected by the tears he had brought on so facetiously. “It’s a taxing,saddening job for a cop who cares,” he said.

  Through her tears, the general said, “Do you cry about it sometimes?”

  Powder didn’t answer her at first. Then, compassionately, said, “Not often.”

  “I cry all the tune,” the general said. “But this time feels more than usual.”

  Powder stood and nodded quietly.

  The general said to him, “That’s a hell of a costume, mister.” She wiped her eyes and walked away.

  Fleetwood was alone when Powder returned her refilled glass. She looked tired.

  Powder sat on the floor beside her. “You stewed?” he asked.

  “Sure,” she said.

  “Your friend Capes,” Powder said.

  Tightening, she said, “What about him?”

  “My guess is that he hangs around you for you to comfort him. Have I got it right?”

  She looked at him.

  “Sort of like when a guy’s partner gets killed and the guy feels guilty about being the one left alive? Have I hit it?”

  She said nothing.

  “Keep silent if I have it right,” Powder said. And after a moment of quiet he added, “I’ve been worrying about that.”

  Fleetwood shook her head and said, “You have a capacity for churning up my insides in about two seconds flat.”

  “We’ll all have plenty of tune to relax when we’re dead,” Powder said.

  Fleetwood emptied her drink on his head.

  Slowly he raised his eyes.

  She said, “You don’t know how much better I feel now.”

  Powder rubbed his face and started to laugh.

  Fleetwood sat looking smug.

  Powder stood up. “Come on,” he said. “Let’s go for a walk since you hate dancing so much.”

  They circumnavigated Lockerbie Square and were silent for several minutes.

  As they started around again Powder asked about Clive Bu
rrus.

  “I talked to one of his friends. And to him for about a minute.”

  “He remember you?”

  “Nope. I thought he would, but he didn’t.”

  “It’s the face out of context. Drink must have dulled his associative intelligence.”

  “Oh.”

  “So what did you get?”

  “From his friend, that he is generally a fastidious dresser.”

  “Is he, now?”

  “And couldn’t say whether he might have had a live-in girlfriend.”

  “What does Burrus do for a living?”

  “He’s in an insurance company’s actuarial department.”

  “Did this friend know you are a cop?”

  “Yes.”

  Powder thought about it. Then he asked, “And what about the private eye type? Find anything out about him?”

  “A bit,” Fleetwood said quietly.

  “Don’t play games. Sure, he’s my kid. But I want to know what you found out that I don’t already know.”

  “They like him. Sociable. Easygoing.”

  “I wasn’t thinking about a personality reference for sharing a desert island. What’s he up to?”

  Fleetwood said, “He seems to be doing well, and the prosperity is shared by a group of three or four people that he hangs out with.”

  “Did you get what they were doing?”

  “No.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because I didn’t.”

  “What else?”

  “He’s a couple with the woman of the house.”

  “For long?”

  “I had the feeling it was a couple of months.”

  “And how long has the ‘prosperity’ been going?”

  “Not long either.”

  “Names of the others?”

  Fleetwood hesitated. “If you get on to something, will you turn it over to—”

  “To the detectives? How could I do that? I got no body to make them get out of their chairs for.”

  “There is a social group. I don’t know that everyone is involved in the business activities.”

  “Grove, Hurst, Mrs. Lee I know,” Powder said. “Any others?”

  Fleetwood gave him two other names.

  Powder repeated them. Then he turned his nose to the sky and said, “What a lovely night.”